


Tony Stark: Troubleshooter

by Virodeil



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings in Author’s Note, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Partly in canon, Prompt Fic, Protective Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Reincarnation, Stream of Consciousness, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark’s Brand of Language, a lot of headcanons, more tags added as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:53:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28806147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: It begins with yet another alien infiltration to Stark Tower. And then Tony’s troubleshooting job extends not only to his bots and his AI and his company, but also to… other things.
Relationships: Farbauti/Laufey (Marvel), Laufey & Tony Stark, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Tony Stark/Laufey (Marvel)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 38





	1. Civil

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the flippant title, the story is not cracky; not even light, in some parts. It’s solidly in Rey-verse, too, and has the big potential to be a multicrossover, though you needn’t be familiar with the other fandoms to understand the story.

When JARVIS reported the presence of _yet another_ infiltrator on the rooftop of Stark Tower, Tony never expected nor even imagined that the intruder’d look rather like _Loki_ , nor that the said intruder’d use “ _magic_ ” to do… something… to his precious tower. Loki’s gone with Thor and the Tessaract to Asgard _yesterday_ , after all, and there’s no indication that Loki’s back for round two of the alien invasion thus far.

` _But if not Loki, then who?_ `

Exhausted with the post-battle cleanup and horrors, he nonetheless figuratively stomps upstairs.

And the possible alien’s _still there_ , staring blankly at the spot where one of the Loki-craters used to be, where Loki actually lay when Tony and the others found him after the battle.

The intruder does look rather like Loki – black hair, green eyes and all – and maybe even taller, but there’s no present indication that the said intruder’s doing some mojo.

And the intruder also looks _far too wretched_ to be some evil invader.

Well, gestures and expressions can be crafted to show a certain way, Tony knows _and does it_ , and maybe there’s also some mojo that can influence someone’s perception and decision, akin to when Loki mind-controlled some SHIELD people, but he _somehow_ doesn’t believe any of those apply in this case.

So he steps up to the possible alien despite his lack of weapons and JARVIS’ alarmed warning of “Sir!” and clears his throat softly.

But the intruder doesn’t even twitch.

Not even when he clears his throat louder.

` _Oh, damn, this one’s even more fucked up than I am. Now what should I do?_ `

He’s got little time. He’s got his own problems, too. But leaving the intruder up here alone feels wrong in so many ways.

So he reaches up – way too high – ` _Thank you, height-conscious-making alien._ ` – and shakes the said intruder’s shoulder, unexpectedly _boney_ under that apple-green corny buttoned jacket.

Aaand, there’s the twitch he looked for.

Also the eyeblink he never expected.

The possible alien looks at him, then, _really_ looks at him, and, yep, this one’s an alien indeed, with how young but _old_ they look, older than Thor and Loki, with raw hopelessness and helplessness that’s – in Tony’s fervent opinion – not meant for public viewing like this.

Twitching from head to toe, the inadvertent host releases his hold on the alien’s shoulder and clears his throat again, casting about frantically in his mind for something – _anything_ – to talk about, to lessen _that look_ , forget to shoo the alien away for now.

But, fortunately… or not… the alien speaks before he can, and all they say – or croak horribly in a whisper, rather – is, “Where is my child?”

Tony winces. “Name?” he stalls, though he thinks he _knows_ who the child is.

So he doesn’t expect it, when the alien then says, “Loptr. Loptr Laufey-childe.”

He frowns. “Ah. No. Sorry. No Loppy here.” And somehow, he feels sorry indeed. And maybe he _should_ stop at that, before redirecting the alien’s attention to another thing entirely, but since when does he obey common sense? Other people’s version of common sense, that is. So he offers, “But you do look like Loki.”

The alien blinks again, uncomprehendingly.

And then a look of hope, _even more terrible_ in its rawness than the previous hopelessness, slowly fills those green eyes so alike yet unlike Loki’s after Hulk got to him.

Tony looks away.

He even feels himself shrink away from the question when the poor alien parent asks, “Where is ‘Loki’, then?”

What should he say? That Loki invaded Earth and mind-controlled people _and threw Tony off of his own tower_? That Loki’s been made into a doll roughly handled by Hulk? That Loki’s bound and gagged like a rabid dog after the battle before being shipped off to SHIELD _and_ there’s no guaranty SHIELD’d pay any attention to his health? That Loki’s gone to Asgard _just yesterday_ to face Asgardian justice system?

Well, the lack of verbal answer and the instinctive, unpreventable reaction are answer enough, apparently, in hindsight. Because then the alien lets out a _horrible_ little sound like a small cute animal dying, and Tony’s heart _shrivels_.

` _Damn it. This isn’t what I meant when I thought of having a civil first contact with an alien!_ `

His eyes _burn_ , to boot, when, right in front of him, the alien drops to their knees and crawls right to the spot where Loki lay, when the Loki-crater’s still there, and… just sits there, curled up tight into a small ball with their head tucked into their arms and their knees, and shaking like a leaf.

For the parent of an insane invader and mind-controller, this alien’s far too down-to-earth and harmless and pitiable.

For an alien, at that, this one’s _too_ relatable.

And for an intruder, _fullstop_ , this one’s horribly _in_ adequate, even if what they did was infiltrating an ordinary home, which they _didn’t_.

So, ` _Fuck it all,_ ` he decides, and parks himself right beside the alien, and _sits still and silent_ for once, and asks JARVIS via text on his ever-present phone to… do something nice for this unexpected guest, even up to providing a room for them to kip in.

J asks him random probing questions that he permited the AI to ask to test if he’s mind-controlled, and he answers them all, but it’s all right, really. He’s _not_ mind-controlled, though he knows he’s not behaving like he usually does.

Well, truth be told, he’d like to have some audible distraction, so he needn’t listen to the heart-wrenching noises his guest continues to let out, barely stifled, but he suspects listening to Black Sabbath and the like now would defeat his entire presence here.

So he asks his AI to play the recording of a lullaby, specifically the one he often hears his nanny – Pepper’s old counterpart in PA-dom, the one taking care of him and his things instead of his external affairs – sing to her children.

And his own cheeks get wet.


	2. Strange

Tony’s never good with crying, or crying people. Tony’s never good with dealing with emotions, _fullstop_.

And now, he gets _cried on_ by _an alien_ , when he shares his secretly most favourite song with the latter.

Half of him wishes he never brought the song up.

The other half _commiserates_ with his guest, he realises, when he touches his own not-so-dry face.

But really, whoever wrote the song, they’re far away from home and missed it so much it bled all over a supposedly peaceful kid’s song, and his nanny pours her own heart into it each time, including in this recording, which JARVIS took when Tony shamelessly asked her to sing _for him_ , once, shortly after he returned from that hell with an arc reactor embedded in his chest and a new friend dead for him. This little song carried him through his stint in Afghanistan mostly intact, too, before that. So he’d say he can be excused for being… carried away, a little, especially after what happened this past week, coupled with the sounds the alien lets out every so often. But why would the alien…?

_Well_ , in any case, he’s awefully glad – _relieved_ – when his guest _at last_ stops watering his shoulder, and doesn’t seem to notice that he joined the fray for a little while before they’re done.

“Um, wanna some water?” he offers, awkwardly, when the alien _holds him close_ instead of pulling away, once they’re not weepy anymore.

But even as they say yes, they _don’t_ let him go.

Dum-E, who’s the one bringing him and his guest some bottled water and… blueberries, it looks, _doesn’t_ help the situation. Because the dumb thing takes the “Yes” as prompt to bring the water over instead of letting him extricate himself and go fetch it.

And even as the alien’s sipping the water, they _don’t_ release him from their arms.

“I’m not a teddy bear, y’know,” he points out at last, half amused and half annoyed, when they _cuddle him closer_ instead, after drinking their fill.

And, what they say – murmur into his ear – in response is, “No, just Úti.”

And then they nuzzle their face into the crook of his neck.

Tony stares at the top of the alien’s head, gaping. “Uh, no,” he lets out at length. “I’m Tony. And who’re you anyway? Can’t just call you ‘the alien’, y’know.”

“Fié,” is what the alien says. _Only that_.

Tony sighs.

“Look,” he says, “I’m sorry you missed meeting your kid, really, even if your kid’s Loki, but… can we not do this? And I’m not Hoo-tea or whatever. You called the wrong number, buddy.”

“I am not Buddy,” is what the alien – Fié? – says to that, with all innocence that somehow feels like hiding some cheek, and Tony can’t help but laugh.

Under another circumstance, he bets he’d like to know this alien better – even _much, much better_. But the sudden clinginess _after_ the crying jag is strange, and this alien’s still a stranger, and Tony hasn’t slept a wink since the battle….

“I’ll call you Buddy if you don’t call me Tony.”

Well, he’s rewarded with a laugh – more than half a sob, but still some breathy chuckle – and… the alien cuddles him _even closer_.

“I can bear being called that until you tire of it,” they say, and Tony rolls his eyes exasperatedly at the top of their head.

“C’mon, buddy, I haven’t slept since forever, y’know,” he whinges. “Can’t we just…. Well, I can’t do anything, if your kid’s Loki, since he’s not even here any longer, but you seem like an all-right guy. Nice to chat with you, but… not now. So can you _please_ let me go? I even got you a room, if you’d like to crash here for a while.”

His next words die unuttered. Because in that second, _something_ crashes all round him, but not physically, and it somehow feels _familiar_ , and _so, so, so intimate_ , though he never experienced this before, or met this strange, clingy alien.

It _strongly_ emanates desperation and grief and longing and dismay of being parted _from him_ and _so many other things_ that he doesn’t care to detangle.

And then the alien’s voice sounds in his mind, bypassing his ears, ` _Please, Úti, no, do not leave me as well. I have just found you!_ `

Tony sighs _again_. “For the last time, buddy….”

And, miracle of all miracles, the alien _lets him go_.

They even bow their head at him, though it looks more like they dearly wish to curl up again for another crying session.

And then, they’re just… gone.

_All_ of them, including their unsettlingly familiar presence all round him.

No sound, no word, no movement, no light show. Just _gone_.

Tony reels. He feels… lost, strangely.

No, fuck it. He feels _bereft_ , somehow.

“J,” he asks, and dreads the answer, but he _asks_ , “is the guy still around?”

“No, Sir.” The AI sounds _apologetic_ , and Tony knows then that he looks the part.

“Fuck it,” he hears himself say, but it feels distant. Everything feels surreal.

But the wet patch on his shoulder’s _real_ , and the floor beneath his bum’s _real_ , and JARVIS’ concerned prodding’s _real_ , and there’s a quarter-drunk bottle of water nearby, and Dum-E’s also still nearby with the other bottle and a packet of blueberries.

“Fuck it,” he repeats, and he means it this time.

Drunkenly, though he’s drunk nothing but some water and copious amounts of coffee since the battle – _no_ , since SHIELD came for him about tracking Loki and the Tessaract down – he scrambles to his feet and stumbles to the bank of lifts. He can’t compute what’s just happened, not just now, but he’s pretty sure that he _didn’t_ mean to shoo the alien off of his tower, that it looked like the both of them were going to be… good acquaintances, if not more, despite the alien’s strangeness.

He wasn’t alone, just now, but now he _is_ , and he _hates_ it.


	3. Bleak

Tony’s got a love-hate relationship with his lullaby since the strange alien’s strange visit. He can’t even bear overhearing his nanny singing it to her rugrats. But he _can’t_ not listen to it, either, when _all_ his searches for “Fié” meet with dead-end.

The photos and videos he got that match the footage of his brief guest are either of Loki or someone – a selectively famous world-wide tour guide, apparently – named Nalla. And there’s no Fié anywhere text-wise.

He even asks the people round the tower, if they know anybody named Fié.

Chan-Chan the nanny looks strangely back at him from behind her dorky bottle-bottom specs.

“Uncle Tony’s spouse,” is what her somewhat creepy twin elder kids chorus from behind her, though he doubts they know what “spouse” means.

Pepper turns out to have known “Nalla” when she’s a kid, and confirms that “Nalla” does look rather like Loki, but she doesn’t know anybody by the name of “Fié”.

Happy doesn’t know, either, and frets something aweful when Tony confesses that he got visited by an alien – _another_ alien – on his rooftop.

None of the staffers of the offices and shops attached to the tower knows.

But someone – someone he knows, even, who sometimes helps him with medical things – from the Doctors Without Borders office headquartered at the tower by the name of Dr. Tioma _looks at him sharply_ before they – and this guy does look androgynous, kind of like Laufey and Loki – school their expression back to neutral.

_But_ they refuse to say anything about “Fié”, and in fact leaves the tower altogether when he pesters them, though he manages – _barely_ – to reel them back with the promise not to do it anymore.

And all the while, in the week that’s gone by since “Fié” dropped by so suddenly and left just as abruptly, Tony’s been getting mysterious little gifts with the _feel_ – yes, the _feel_ , and he can’t explain how he senses it – of the presence that briefly drenched him last week. A strange blue-grey-wooden music box that plays the melodies of the lullaby hauntingly, a simple necklace made of a chain of silver-blue pearls that feels like the alien’s once more wrapped round him when he wears it, a big old-fashioned glass jar of deliciously tart blue jam, a weird but delicious and addictive drink stored in a self-cooling stone flask, a photograph – or maybe painting? – cast on a bendy metal sheet of the alien and a few kids of various ages who look somewhat like them, a ridiculously luxuriously comfy skirt-like pair of dark-green and silver-hemmed shorts, a humongous and decadently comfy duvet which emanates coolness instead of warmth – and _all_ materialise beside him wherever he happens to park himself at the tower, without any indication of how but for a small burst of alien energy.

They just make him madder.

And more obsessive, Pepper says.

Which Chan-Chan concurs most heartily.

And Happy supports most solemnly.

The rugrats, too.

Traitors, all.

And _still_ , he bears their whinging, and wears the shorts in his workshop, and wears the necklace under everything everytime, and listens to the music box when he’s feeling particularly down or mad at the alien, and snuggles under the duvet whenever Chan-Chan manages to get him into bed as if he’s one of her rugrats, and shares the drink and jam with his unconventional family, and magnets the photograph to the fridge in the kitchen of his penthouse for lack of anything else he can do with it. After he’s tested them all thoroughly, of course, but… well, he just _can’t_ not get close to these items, somehow, just like he can’t stop searching for his alien.

He doesn’t know, either, when he firstly began to consider the alien as _his_ , but by now he _does_ , and he’s not about to stop – stop hunting the said alien, that is. He’s even considering making “Fié-traps” round the places he haunts. And a collaboration with Thor’s girlfriend to build a way to hunt the dratted alien more actively, too.

Fury’s boyband and minions have begun to notice his new mission, by now, but since when does _Tony Stark_ care about their nosiness, anyway?

And then, today, on the eighth day since the alien’s come and gone, in lieu of yet another gift, _the alien themself_ is suddenly _here_ , materialising right beside Tony in one of his labs at the tower, just like when they went away a week ago.

Caught off guard, the preoccupied inventor flails – physically, mentally and verbally.

And all the while, the alien looks on with a bleak expression on their haggard face, not even the slightest amused at their once-again host’s predicament.

“You!” Tony splutters, at long last.

“Me,” Fié murmurs in agreement, completely serious.

“What for?” Tony _still_ can’t find his wits and his words, so he lifts the necklace and pinches at the side of his shorts in elaboration.

“My promises to you.” The alien looks even bleaker, if possible, as if already expecting rejection despite Tony wearing both items at present.

Tony gawks, uncomprehending.

He pokes at the alien’s chest – and they’re solidly _real_! – in lieu of a verbal demand.

And the alien says, in the same soft, hollow tone, with their eyes latched on Tony’s, “I apologise, Úti. Your presence caught me off guard. I was searching for Loptr, but I found you instead, and they were not with you, but…,” they falter, looking terribly lost, then, “but you were there, and you behaved so much like before, and… I thought you knew.”

Tony’s _even more stumped_ than before. But, before he can say anything about it, the alien continues, “You were my spouse, once. You have been reborn, and I thought you were aware of that fact. I…,” they falter again, before rallying and finishing quickly, “I wish to court you properly.”

Tony’s jaw feels like hitting the floor, with how widely he gapes at present.

He’s never been propositioned by anybody in so bleak a manner.


	4. Teal

Fié claims that Tony’s once Farbauti – otherwise Úti, or Afa – their spouse who died about _four centuries_ ago.

They explain that marriage to their kind – they’re _really_ an alien! – is more a merging of purposes, responsibilities, interests, wealths, powers, names and goals than “a permission for people to mate with each other, especially since one can bear children without even seeking for another’s seed to supplement their own.” And for an unequal marriage – ` _Why unequal?_ ` – such what they _had_ with Farbauti, they had to court the latter, give a promise for care and comfort and safety and all, verbally _and_ with half-symbolic gifts.

And receiving _plus_ wearing or using the gifts would signify _acceptance_ of the bond.

Seated in the cushion pit in the living room of his penthouse, wrapped in the cooling duvet Fié gave him _as part of a marriage proposal ritual_ , Tony _once more_ gapes at the alien.

“So… we’re _married_ , now?” he manages, at last. His voice squeaks high, but _screw it_ , he’s got bigger problems than a temporary embarrassment!

He slumps into his squishy, comfy nest on Fié’s blunt “Yes.”

Just his luck: being _accidentally married_.

To an _alien_ , at that.

Who claimed he’s _a reincarnated alien_ who’s _also_ married to them in the _previous life_.

“Teaches me how _not_ to accept gifts,” he mutters into the duvet, but nonetheless refuses to shuck off the things he’s still wearing and using.

He’s more flummoxed than anything, really, at present, while trying _and for once failing_ to process this new data. But still, marriage has _never_ entered his mind before. He always thought he’d make Stark International – including Stark Industries – into publicly managed entities of their own after he died, even when Obi’s there and not uncovered as evil yet. When Pepper and then Chan-Chan entered his life a few years back and they – with Happy, too, later on – surprisingly clicked together like quite a ragtag family, he revised the expectations – also his will – by giving the industries to Pepper, the university to Chan-Chan, with the proviso that the latter got an ample share in Stark Industries’ stocks and vice versa, with a good sum left for Happy, and the foundation to both women and Happy. He simply didn’t – _doesn’t_ – want to burden any poor kid with his aweful genes, and never wants to be burdened with the responsibilities of raising a kid, too, even if just to provide his conglomerate with an heir. There’ll be _no_ Tony Stark 2.0.

Not to mention, he doesn’t want to get tied to someone in such a binding way, sexually.

But now….

He stares blankly at the not-man, not-woman near-stranger perched at the edge of the cushion pit opposite him, who fidgets a little and looks uncomfortable. Then the alien speaks again, “Would you like me to explain what each of the gifts means?”

Tony shakes his head, then rethinks his knee-jerk reaction and nods warily instead.

He _was_ curious, and he still _is_ , and there’s actually no reason why he should say no to the info if offered freely, _unasked_ , even if the thought of marriage makes dread and doom squirm in his chest and gut.

Fié doesn’t seek to come close to him, too, though they seem to itch badly to do so.

They talk, and talk, and talk, and Tony buries himself further into the nest, under the duvet they gave him, which is a promise for _home and shelter_ from them.

The musical box is to be a reminder of shared time and a promise of comfort. The photo’s a family portrait and a promise for the same. The jam’s a shared “bounty” from their private land and a promise for sharing everything. The shorts were made by their own handss, to be a promise of care, belonging, safety, continuity, privacy and intimacy. The necklace is actually a _shielding amulet_ with the bonus of reminding him of them, also a tangible promise of protection.

And the pebble-like, gem-like kind-of sweets are actually _their own breast-milk made solid_ , which signifies their ultimate commitment to share _themself_ – _all_ of them, _all_ of theirs – with him, _permanently_.

_And_ Fié themself is here, now, to conclude the gifts with all the symbols with _their own very tangible self_.

It’s a _very thorough_ promise, _veryt angible_ as well, and _very binding_ , and Tony’s scared silly by it.

Well, flattered, too, in a tiny corner in the depths of his little heart.

Because, well, words are _just_ words, and marriage vows mean nothing nowadays, but these….

He swallows, hard, and finds the gulped-in saliva and air stuck in his throat. His head, popping right back up out of the duvet when Fié mentioned the milk, as he stared goggle-eyed at them, now gets reburied, as he tries to make sense of this new data.

While the last one _hasn’t_ been processed well – not even close to that.

And he’s hiding under one of the things whose symbolisms and consequences daunt him so.

_And_ the giver of _such a promise_ is nearby, _staring anxiously and apprehensively at him_.

` _Damn. I need a drink!_ `

But, when he leaves the safety of his hidy-hole again, however long after Fié’s fallen silent, he – unexpectedly, especially to himself – doesn’t make a beeline to the kegerator set at one corner of the living room.

His feet bring him to his bedroom instead, to one of the blankets on his bed: a joint birthday gift from Pepper, Happy and Chan-Chan, when Chan-Chan firstly participated in his birthday celebration as his nanny. It’s an ordinary patchwork quilt with a teal underside, far smaller than what Fié gave him, but Happy chose and bought the teal cloth and down, Chan-Chan gathered the fabric swatches over the months, and Pepper sewed it all together neatly and fetchingly.

He never acknowledged it out loud, not even to the givers, but the blanket’s _home_ to him. It never failed to keep him company when he slept alone.

Now, he gives it to Fié.


	5. Yonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lullaby is my own creation. If you were good with writing a poem that can be turned into a song, I would welcome your help in turning this into truly a song instead of just a snippet of it.

Fié’s _stunned_ when Tony presents them with the blanket and explains its history, also, reluctantly and _very_ briefly, what it means to him.

“This doesn’t mean I’m married to you or whatever, and I want equal partnership, if it _ever_ comes to that,” he warns. “But let’s take it slow, all right? I’ve got some time yet left in me.” Well, not _that_ much time, he figures, given his fame and infamy and history of alcoholism and shrapnel-riddled chest and privatisation of world peace, but enough to see what’ll become of the two of them, regardless of what _may_ have happened in the past. Fié’s not a bad somebody, after all, it seems, character-wise, and Tony could’ve chosen far worse if he indeed must be tied to somebody. “This is… well, um, my promise to you, to _really_ try this. And, um, if it doesn’t work, um, I’d like it back.” He fidgets and looks anywhere but the tall, skinny beanpole in front of him, wishing he’s still got the blanket to occupy his hands and attention, wishing Fié wouldn’t stare at him like that, wishing something or someone swooped in to save him from this awkward and _terribly vulnerable_ moment.

He’s been intimate with lots of people throughout the forty years of his life, but he never felt _vulnerable_ with any of them. He never _was_ fulnerable with any of them. Not like this. And Fié and he aren’t even touching each other in any way right now – there’s at least _a metre_ between them!

So, when the cuddle-hungry sod – his new beau somewhat by force – asks for _a hug_ , he reacts by skittering back a few more paces.

Fié looks crushed, but unsurprised, and Tony unexpectedly feels wretched for it.

“I shall see you some time later, then?” they offer, next, instead of pursuing the matter further or asking for something else. There’s no anger, irritation or condemnation in it, though they do sound a little disappointed and tentative.

Alien.

Tony _never not_ got demanded by people for various reasons and purposes. He even got demanded to do things by Pepper and Chan-Chan, sometimes, and once by Happy when he’s drunk and wanted to drive the car that’s to bring him home while the women and rugrats were in there.

But, in any case, _none of them_ are to be hitched together with him in something-that’s-not-matrimony. And, contrary to popular belief, as he never saw the need nor wish for it, he’s _never_ been in a serious relationship before this.

` _Go figure. My first and **un** demanding partner, and I turn them **away**._`

He sighs.

` _Well, if I want this to happen…._ ` “No, stay. Just, can we just watch a movie or something? For now? I got lots of movies here. J can show you more and other things too if you want. Just, let’s just… just… _something_. Maybe not now, the hug I mean, but… later?”

And Fié _agrees_.

And the both of them settle in the thankfully humongous cushion pit with a metre between them, nestled in their own nooks, with Tony in Fié’s blanket and vice versa, watching Tarzan.

Tony never questions nor wonders about the domesticity or alienness of it. _Deliberately_. Not even when his stomach rumbles, and Fié shares pieces of odd and oddly flavoured but delicious jerky with him that the latter got from… somewhere.

Bambi goes up next, then I, Robot, then Pokémon the Movie.

Tony comments and explains and laughs. Fié comments and wonders and makes some rather snarky impromptu mimicry on a few scenes. Nobody bothers the two of them, not even Chan-Chan’s rugrats, and Tony realises it only when he’s on the verge of dropping off to sleep, feeling relaxed and oddly safe.

JARVIS must’ve shooed everyone away and fielded the calls. Nice.

` _Yeah. Nice. Paradise for two,_ ` he thinks, muzzily. He never understood what it means – what it _really_ means, before this.

And he’s having it not in a gorgeous tropical island, not in his workshop, not in his bedroom, not in a ritzy hotel room or restaurant, not while he’s having some fabulous sex with a model, but here in the extraordinary-but-still-ordinary living room of his tower, in a cushion pit that Chan-Chan and her rugrats usually occupy for playing and relaxing, companionably watching film after film after film, with a metre of space between him and his partner, with no attempt by either to steal touches or looks.

He doesn’t want this to end. But, at the same time, he wants to wallow in the atmosphere, too, by letting it buoy him on his way to dreamland. So, “Stay,” he tells his fellow potato couch – he _thinks_ he tells them, anyway – and blindly, lethargically reach out a hand.

He hears no acknowledgement from the said fellow potato couch, let alone an agreement, but a huge, cool hand – cooler than a normal human temperature is – now comfortably holds his, and Chan-Chan’s lullaby flows from an entirely different mouth, almost equally full-hearted.

“Home is yonder, dark and fair;  
Home I go, comfort and care;  
Wait for me, wait for me,….”

“Home,” he agrees, then plonks right down into dreamland.

As he secretly dreaded, Fié’s no longer there when he wakes up. Chan-Chan’s there, though, playing quietly with her rugrats. And his blanket _isn’t_ there.

He’s somehow pleased about that last point.

Also with waking up to find he’s not alone.

But he’s most pleased when he hears her singing the lullaby to the kiddies and he feels no pang about it.

Fié _was_ there and it’s fine. He’s fine. They’re all fine.

He’s going to _somehow_ make the Fié-traps he thought about, though, and maybe his personal wormhole bridge, too.

Fié _isn’t_ going to escape him so soon and so easily, next time. They’re just film-watching buddies, for now, but it isn’t a reason – an _excuse_ – for the prat to skedaddle when he asked them to stay.

“Wait for me, wait for me,” he sings along, quite feelingly.


	6. Guise

Jane Foster _accepts_ working with Tony at the tower.

Darcy Lewis, too, in the PR division, though she’s _also_ a SHIELD agent – at least _for now_.

Erik Selvig refuses… but Tony needs just one astrophysicist right now, anyway.

Contrarily, Dr. Tioma just… shows up, suddenly, _not_ in their DWB uniform at that, and just _announces_ that they’ll be Tony’s personal physician from now till Fié says otherwise, as appointed _singly_ by _Fié_ – the utter _prat_.

Tony can’t get right away to the bottom of this particular problem, though, because Fury snoops in – _tries to_ – after all those. And Happy, irritated with aliens popping in whenever they want at the tower and now somewhat prepared, gets the one-eyed-pirate guy… with _slimy, smelly, sticky, neon-green goop_ pouring down from the ceiling and making him roll over and over on the slippery floor for a precious minute. _And_ , at the end of the minute, the security team’s there, escorted by a few Iron Man suits piloted by JARVIS, to usher him and his minions out of the tower.

_Priceless_.

Well, Ms. Pretender and Agent Legolas accept the post-battle invitation to stay at the tower, then, _but postpone the acceptance_ when Tony stipulates that there are things they can’t _ever_ tell SHIELD if they stay with him, and it kind of hurts, a little, but… eh.

And speaking of Fury’s boyband, Cap’s never given Tony a yes or a no regarding the invitation to stay, and Bruce is already somewhere else, far away from New York and SHIELD’s main base, avoiding… things, and people as well.

Despite everything, _fortunately_ , nothing of the like happens or applies to Fié, because they _do_ visit again, _unscathed_ , though after a _long_ time in Tony’s reckoning, and without telling Tony beforehand, and they’re an alien so whom would they tell on Earth?

Then again, at least they’re _here_. And they pop in in Tony’s main workshop in the tower _right beside Tony himself_ , after all, and Tony’d be _quite mad_ with Happy if the latter rigged the _workshop and lab areas_ with something like the goop, even for security purposes, and _also got Tony in the blast_.

Good landing site.

_Too good_ , maybe, even, since Fié ought _not_ to have known about the Fury incident.

“Got time to visit me, now?” he grumbles, but nonetheless prevents Dum-E from ushering the intruder away. “Did your henchman tattle everything to you?”

“Just the pertinent details,” is what the prat says, shruggily, then follows with, “Týo would be offended if you called them a man, you know.”

Tony growls and jabs a screw-driver at the prat’s chest. “It’s a _fucking_ month and that’s all you say to me?”

“Well, no.” Fié pushes the screw-driver away with one finger. “I planned to say more, as I hoped I could stay for a little longer this time.”

“Define ‘a little longer’.” Tony narrows his eyes warily, even as he plays an impromptu aim-the-screw-driver with the awefully strong finger.

“Longer than before,” is the noncommittal answer, but incongruously delivered in a rather heartfelt tone. “It could even be a little longer still, if you would like to accompany me in some of my duties.”

“Duties,” Tony echoes, then jabs his other hand forward to dislodge the finger from his screw-driver… to no avail.

“Duties,” Fié affirms, raising an eyebrow, then continues bitterly and scornfully, complete with visual aid, “I would like to continue searching for Loé. But no, I have _duties_ to perform. I missed them by a short while, even, because of _duties_.”

“Low-ay?” Tony’s being a wingless parrot now, apparently.

Fié sighs, twists the screw-driver out of Tony’s grip, and grips it in turn – so tightly that the industrial-grade handle _crieks_. “My child. Loptr. The one I asked you about.”

“Oh.” Tony pauses, his hand falling limply alongside his heart. “Oh.” He never said what Loki’d done and what happened after. And, apparently, Fié’s _still_ stewing about that.

But how should – _can_ – he tell the poor… mum? Mum-dat?… who _clearly longs to be with their kid_ that the said kid – if it’s _Loki_ – is a deranged wannabe king who invaded Earth with an alien force just so that he could rule the world, who tried to kill Tony in what looked like a _premeditated murder_ , who was treated like a rabid dog about to be euthanised afterwards, who was carted to Asgard as a dangerous criminal?

Tony _still_ doesn’t have an answer to this, even after so long.

_However_ , unlike before, Fié _pursues the matter_.

“Where is Loé, Úti?”

“I told you,” he evades, nervously. “Don’t call me–.”

“Where _is_ Loé, Úti?”

Tony takes a hopefully discreet step back. Fié now is _terrifying_ , wreathed in a powerful, looming, jagged presence he can _acutely_ sense like a demented halo, in the guise of calmness – that deceptively low and soft tone, that unreadable look, that neutral face, that deceptively relaxed stance – that doubles the terror factor.

He has no desire whatsoever to be the brunt of this new Fié. They’re far more terrifying than Loki ever was!

Loki was just… pathetic.

And gone.

Possibly forever.

But also _Fié’s kid_.

And Tony’s agreed to _try it_ with Fié.

He never knew – never _realised_ – that Fié came as a packaged deal with a dangerously insane kid, his would-be murderer, Earth’s would-be conquerer.

` _Damn it._ `

Whatever his faults are, and he’s aware he got _many_ of them, reneging on his deals isn’t one of such.

So, “Thor brought Loki back to Asgard,” he says, and inwardly prepares himself to helplessly help Fié storm Thor’s homeland to free their kid.

“There should have _never_ be a ‘ _back_ ’ in that statement,” Fié snarls, _at last_ showing off the scariness Tony only perceived till a moment ago.

And the helplessness begins, just so, as Tony doesn’t know – daren’t do – anything that could validate the statement without being untrue and more insulting, refute it without him being eviscerated by _this_ angry parent, or mollify the latter either way.

` _Fuckety fuck._ `


	7. Quilt

Fortunately… or not… Tony manages to persuade Fié _not_ to storm Asgard right away.

He’s got his own _long_ list of rash decisions – the ones he owns up himself and the ones people claim he’s made – and he’s usually not one to prevent others from making those decisions for themselves, as long as he isn’t harmed in any way by it, but… well… he’d rather make a wormhole and defend Earth from all comers, first.

And he’s got no desire to meet Loki again too soon, admittedly, and this reason’s stronger than the other one, though it goes unsaid.

_But_ , for this, he got a mopy Fié huddling in his cushion pit under his patchwork quilt… which seems to have been enlarged to many times its original size by some means… and it’s not fun _at all_.

“If you don’t move, I’ll sic the rugrats on you,” he threatens, at length, fed up with the prat, who doesn’t go anywhere but also makes him stay in some unknown way. Watching tv’s _boring_ with a mopy companion, it turns out, and by now he’s ready to do many things, even taking his blanket back.

“Rugrats?” Fié stares blankly at him.

“Chan-Chan’s kids,” he huffs.

“Chan-Chan? Kids?” Fié parrots, _yet again_.

He throws a pillow at Fié’s head, feelingly.

They throw it back, huffingly. “I truly did not know what you meant with those words, Úti! I hope you did not mean to make the offspring of some goat harass me!”

Tony falls about laughing, hearing it and looking at Fié’s indignant, affronted expression, and gets buried in pillows for that.

But Fié’s _no longer mopy_ , and Tony’s willing to suffer even a little more than that to achieve this.

He uses the chance to ask if they’d like to go on a date with him.

“A date’s when you go out with someone to talk and do things, just the both of you,” he explains before a puzzled and irritated Fié can ask about it. “Usually it means romantically, between couples, but not always. Think I got a few play-dates when I was a kid.”

And Fié _agrees_.

But they refuse to wear anything different for the date.

“What is wrong with my clothing?” they ask, _more_ puzzled and irritated.

“Too boooooring,” complains Tony. “Can’t you dress pretty? Or handsome? Or… well… more _special_?”

“Why would I?” is the return, and Tony once more lobs a pillow at the prat’s head in frustration.

“Forget it,” he grumbles, then turns his back on the prat and curls up round a huge pillow with his head on another. Out comes his phone…

…Which is swiftly plucked out of his hand by the _utter prat_ and hidden who-knows-where. They ignore his protesting squawk and proceed to spoon him cuddlingly from behind.

It’s rather… comfy. But Tony _shan’t_ tell the git that.

He’s distracted, anyway, in the next moment, when Fié’s presence once more drenches him, just before the alien’s voice sounds in his mind, again bypassing his ears, ` _You were far larger than I was. It is strange that you are now much smaller._ `

` _Way to make a man confident, prat,_ ` Tony grumps.

` _Hmm, not a man – not **just** a man, I hope,_` is the – ludicrous, incomprehensible – return.

But, before Tony can say anything to _that_ , Fié continues, ` _Who is Chan-Chan?_ `

And, just like that, Tony gets the date he wished, just without going anywhere physically, without any spoken words uttered but for some chuckles and hums at a few points, without anybody changing into anything nicer to impress each other, with him spooned comfily and surprisingly _un_ sexually, and with the both of them talking about harmless things about their respective – and _shared_ , Fié insists – families.

It’s… sort of… nice.

It’s even nicer when Fié somehow manages to acquire their respective blankets and tucks the said blankets round the owners.

They even exchange bite-sized, unmessy dishes – things that they can eat without moving away from their comfy spots – when Tony complains that a date’s not complete without some shared meal.

It beats the gourmet dishes offered in the fanciest, ritziest of bistros, _somehow_ , and the company likewise.

` _I could do this type of dating again and again and again and again._ `

Tony’s _fully aware_ that he’s turning into a sappy, saccharine-sweet sod, but for now he _doesn’t care_.

Fié turns into human-shaped putty in his arms when he runs his fingers over and over and over again through their thick, long hair, which smells like a crisp morning in a pine forest that he once visited. What Tony feels about it is oddly _not_ the usual smug accomplishment of gaining yet another conquest, though, and not because he doesn’t get to have sex with this exasperating alien, but… _something else_ – something that he doesn’t want to delve into at present. He just feels too… comfy… to think of anything.

But of course, the world chooses just _this_ moment to intrude.

Or rather, _Fury_ does.

By tagging along as Chan-Chan and her rugrats enter the lift _to go up to this level_ , or so JARVIS reports.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears, _quite_ feelingly, as he reluctantly detangles himself from Fié and scrambles out of the cushion pit. “Send me Mark-Seven, J, and get Chan-Chan and her kids to safety. Make sure the others are safe, too. Use the rest of the suits for that if you must.”

He whirls round, then, just as J informs him that the requested Iron Man suit’s on the way. He can’t – _won’t_ – let Fury know that Fié’s here, so Fié must – “Whoa!”

He gapes.

Fié’s no longer in a short-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of knee-length breeches, but rather a slim-fit one-piece something that covers only their body, glitters ever so slightly, and matches the colour of their eyes, as if a rather traditional girl’s swimsuit doubling as _chainmail_ with very fine chain-links. _Still_ bare-footed and weaponless, though.

_But_ , despite the serious situation, despite the ridiculous getup…., “Ooh, you’re hot, babe!”


	8. Scale

From the scale of “Huh” to “It’s the end of the universe,” Tony’d pick “Oh, well, let’s get rid of this guy so I can go back to cuddling” for this situation, and it’s indeed what he’s thinking.

Fury comes out alone from the lift, as JARVIS has directed Chan-Chan and her brood to their own floor. He stalks to where Tony and Fié are standing – not so far away from the cushion pit – and raises his hand.

He lowers it again, though, in the next moment. Quite _without_ his say-so, judging by his strained, shocked and outraged expression, which makes Tony suspect that Fié’s invisible hand’s in play here, like when they prevented Tony himself from vacating the cushion pit.

“Stark!” the beleaguered director of SHIELD barks, and the word impresses Tony _much_ more than his pathetic attempt of intimidation does: a demand, a curse, a threat, a complaint and a yelp all rolled into one.

“What?” Tony returns, with partially unfeigned confusion.

“How did Loki get here?” The one-eyed pirate wannabe growls, though he strangely doesn’t move away from where he stands, as his eye briefly slides to Fié standing calmly at Tony’s side.

` _Huh. Some spell for sticking people to floors? Nifty, that,_ ` Tony thinks, while outwardly shrugging blithely to Fury’s demand. “Beats me. I found out the same time you did.” He knows what Fury _actually_ meant, he thinks, as Fié _does_ look rather like Loki, though _thankfully_ not Loki in truth, but he’s _not_ going to make it easy for this peskily rude intruder.

Judging by the ugly scowl Fury presents now, the not-so-impressive director of SHIELD _knows_. But, eh, it’s more entertaining, in Tony’s opinion.

_Still_ , the pirate’s an intruder, and Tony doesn’t do well with intruders, Fié excluded. So, “Five seconds, Fury. I want your reason WHY YOU came here uninvited _again_ and it’d better be good.”

“Threatening me, now?” Fury snaps.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “My home, my rules. And you’re bothering _everyone_ here. Five seconds, Fury.”

Two Iron Man suits fly through the window that’s suddenly open near where Tony and Fié are, as if to emphasise the point, and Fury looks like he’s struggling to lift his hand again – to fend off the suits, maybe, however futile it’d be.

“You’re harbouring a _world-wide criminal_ , Stark. Nothing can save you from prosecution for that,” the pirate snarls, _finally_ , _just_ before Tony’d order the suits to evict him.

“Did you even ask for their name? _No_ , you just _assumed_ ,” Tony retorts, now beginning to lose his temper. “Don’t you know assumptions can kill you? But maybe you feel you’re safe: the big bad SHIELD director? – J, get rid of him.”

And, just so, the suits descend on the furiously furious Fury and hoist him up into the air between them, away to the still-open window, regardless of his screamed threats.

` _Huh. I should’ve done that right from the start,_ ` Tony muses, tickled by the scene. Then, aloud, he tells his _wonderful_ AI, “J, next time, don’t wait. Just do that. And show the footage to Lewis. Who knows, she might decide to switch all the way.”

Grinning, he turns round to thank Fié for the unlooked-for assistance the alien must’ve given him – that invisible mojo is useful, for once!

But the grin vanishes when he meets Fié’s _smoldering_ eyes – smoldering not in lust, let alone love, but anger _towards him_ , seasoned liberally with palpable hurt, betrayal and disgust.

“Uh, what?” he blurts out, stammering, and hates the response right as it’s drawn out of him.

Fié just glares, for a little more while. But then they burst out, their breaths hitching with fury and perhaps something else, “Loé was hurt _badly_ and they even _died_ , however temporarily, but you had no care _at all_ about them! All this while, you _rejoice_ that they are gone.”

Tony’s totally flummoxed. ` _How did they know? Did they snoop in my mind?_ `

Unable to deny the accusation, he instead glares back at them and snaps, “The only things Loki did were killing people, invading this city with an alien army, and he _tried to throw me off the fucking rooftop just above us, too_! I’m actually _relieved_ he’s not here anymore.”

Fié jerks into a complete stillness hearing that – _really_ complete stillness, which makes Tony wonder if they’re still alive or not. They’re more like lifelike glass statue right now: hard, sharp, but terribly fragile.

From the scale of “Meh” to “Oh, crap, fuck, hell, it should’ve never even passed my mind,” Tony’d pick “Oh, hell, why did I say that?” to describe _this_ situation.

“Fié?”

Tentatively, ready to skedaddle or defend himself at half a moment’s notice, he reaches out a hand.

It makes contact with the side of Fié’s bare upper arm; hot on their cooler-than-normal skin, he’d imagine.

It squeezes, a little, when he doesn’t get smited.

And Fié _shatters_ , just so.

Almost _physically_ , it feels. Tony even braces himself to be rained on by a myriad number of sharp shards.

But all that he receives is an armful of _awefully heavy_ Fié that sends them crashing to the ground, and all that he’s rained on with are tears – _silent_ tears, which feels worse than the semi-noisy crying he was treated to when they first met, also a mental _something_ that swirls chaotically with jagged emotions that rub against each other, them _and him_.

He can only hope that, this time, they won’t leave him forever, or even just for a week.

Because he promised to try, and he _wants_ to try, now, after the awesomely cosy cuddle-date. He can’t try this if they aren’t there, can he?

` _Damn it._ ` The situation ratchets up to near the highest mark of the scale, in that light.

It smacks dab on the top and _begs to go higher_ when Fié whispers _brokenly_ right into his mind, at length, ` _I cannot choose between the two of you, Úti, please do not make me choose, please, no._ `


End file.
